


in time we show our achilles' heels

by quixxotique (crownlessliestheking)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Sex, CrockerCorp Striders: Corporate Sleaze Presidents, Dave is Not as good a brother as he should be, Gaslighting, Gift Fic, Hints of a plot, M/M, Political Intrigue, Power Imbalance, Referenced Child Abuse, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest, The Condesce's Stellar Mothering Skills, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-18 11:04:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13098759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownlessliestheking/pseuds/quixxotique
Summary: Dave is still lingering in the doorway, almost as if he’s waiting for an invitation. Or, more likely, a reaction. Dirk gives him neither, and keeps his head bent over his paperwork; there’s piles of it, enough to fill the entire cavern of the room Mother plans on repurposing for a throne- he finds it ostentatious, Dave has been designing glittery, pixelated decals for it since she broached the idea over breakfast. And strangely enough, there’s no immediate provocation being offered. It’s enough to put Dirk properly on edge. It’s dangerous, how quiet he is, rather than the cloud of constant chatter that precedes him and echoes in his wake like a chemtrail.





	in time we show our achilles' heels

**Author's Note:**

> For the Stridercest Secret Santa; hope you like it!

_Pain, just synapses firing in our brain_  
_So when you cut me, cut me deep_  
_Hurt the ones you love the most easily_  
_'Cause in time we show our Achilles's heels_

_And woah, you're squeezing my heart_  
_Too hard in your cold bare hands, they hold too tight_  
_And woah the air is on fire_  
_This room feels electric, cord here in your sights_

-Power, Bastille

* * *

 

He can tell, the minute that Dave walks into the room.

  
The creak of a door, the slight draft as it opens. Anyone else would have knocked, for one. But there’s something else, far less tangible and bordering on visceral. Instinct, like the way a gazelle’s neck will straighten as it surveys the swaying grasses for any movement that shouldn’t be there, alerted to the presence of a predator. The analogy is flawed, of course: Dirk dislikes things he can’t quantify, and he knows the reasons for this; that, and he refuses to think of himself as such easy prey.

  
But he also knows that while they haven’t strifed recently- not since the other half of their activities started up, anyway- there’s only a slim chance that he can beat him. His heart powers, despite the detail in which he knows and has been instructed towards what they should be, haven’t come in properly yet. Not in a way that he can control, and certainly not in a way he can rely on in a fight, not when Dave can summon his Timetables with a flick of the wrist and a cascade of molten lava and the sonorous grinding of gears echoing through time itself. It’s more than enough dissuasion to start a fight, let alone the knowledge of what Mother would do if she heard tell of them fighting. Though verbal arguments were fine, she did tend to draw the line at near death experiences. Apparently she prefers strongly be the one inflicting them. Dirk supposes that’s one more thing he needs to be grateful for; without that rule, he’s certain that he wouldn’t be here.

  
Either way, Dave is still lingering in the doorway, almost as if he’s waiting for an invitation. Or, more likely, a reaction. Dirk gives him neither, and keeps his head bent over his paperwork; there’s piles of it, enough to fill the entire cavern of the room Mother plans on repurposing for a throne- he finds it ostentatious, Dave has been designing glittery, pixelated decals for it since she broached the idea over breakfast. And strangely enough, there’s no immediate provocation being offered. It’s enough to put Dirk properly on edge. It’s dangerous, how quiet he is, rather than the cloud of constant chatter that precedes him and echoes in his wake like a chemtrail.

  
Dirk doesn’t look up, not until footsteps draw closer, slow and deliberately measured, and he can feel the tension knot in his shoulders as they come to a stop. The air between them is thick, crackling with something dangerous as his brother settles himself into the chair just near the desk, the soft shifting of fabric against leather the only sound in the room.

  
“Not even gonna ask me how the campaign trail went?” he starts off, and Dirk finally pauses, glancing up at him. Ignoring Dave any further would only be courting danger he’d rather ignore.

  
“I don’t need to, given that you live-tweeted the entire thing and all the events were broadcast globally,” he responds, raising an eyebrow. “There was no need to do sickwicked kickflips on-stage for a half hour before decapitating your running-mate, though.”

  
“Public execution, kiddo, you gotta have style. And the guy was a Rebellion plant, anyway; real shame, he was pretty good in the sack. Too bad he got sloppy with his phone calls- seriously, who even uses a phone at this point? No fuckin’ clue about how subterfuge, I tell you. The quality of spies these days is just criminally fuckin’ abysmal.”

  
“Presumably the only ones that get caught are the criminally abysmal ones. That being said, the Rebellion’s essentially on its last legs. The Lalonde woman is the only one left, and even she can’t hold out for too long against us. Mother’s already said she wants to make an example of her, so do try to keep that in mind during your next encounter.” He’s sure he isn’t imagining the ugly flash of emotion that twists Dave’s mouth, even if it’s masked as a casual yawn a half-second too late.

  
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be a good boy, don’t you worry,” Dave answers. “But we’ve gotta move this chitchat on to other matters, yeah?”

  
“Are these even remotely relevant to company interests?”

“You could say that, yeah, given that they involve you directly, kiddo. The veep wasn’t the only one who’s fuckin’ sloppy.”

“You’re going to need to provide some actual context, given that I have no idea what it is you’re talking about.”

“Why don’t you tell me about Jake English, then?”

“You mean the guy I had a thing for a couple years ago?”

“Yeah, the one who’s conveniently still got his ass parked on that island, sitting on a pile of SkaiaTech and happily giving it away to the fuckin’ insurgents, like he’s some demented Santa Claus of anarchy. Merry Shitscram, fucko.”

“I’ve been there,” Dirk says, as evenly as possible. “Half the goal of the trip was to see if any of that stuff was still operational, and it wasn’t. It was beyond defunct, at that point, and even if I could have put something together, it would have taken years. So unless he’s found some secretly hidden cache that neither of us knew about? That tech you’re concerned about is little better than a paperweight.”

“Oh, yeah, because my knockoff clone of cobbled together spare parts couldn’t do it, it means no one can. Check your ego, fucknuts. You don’t know what Lalonde can do, and I can tell you right now, she’s a hell of a lot smarter than you give her credit for.”

“I give her exactly as much credit as she deserves- you’re the one who’s overestimating her. You’re telling me she’s some kind of mechanical genius, now, when there’s absolutely no evidence to prove it.”

“I’m telling you that I’ll be watching you real close, because if you’re as good as you seem to think, there’s no way that you wouldn’t have known about that tech. And that’d make you a sad fuckin’ traitor, wouldn’t it, bro?”

“Old lady English was the real tech genius, and it’s not like I had time to go explore every nook and cranny of the place like she did. If you’d actually read the report, you’d have seen that I said I was 90% sure there wasn’t anything functional there. And you still haven’t said that any of that shit works.”

“English seemed to think it was functional, but he knew fuck-all of what to do with it. A shame, really. Some people have such loose lips when they’ve just been shown a good time.”

“If he didn’t know what to do with it, how could he tell anyone else?”

“Could’ve sent over his old lady’s journals with it- been trying to get our hands on those for years, and- oh yeah, you didn’t, despite spending close to a year on that shitmonkey island.”

“And yet I don’t see you bringing them in triumphantly and presenting them to Mother with a bow that wouldn’t be out of place on a peasant in a medieval court.”

“If I couldn’t get it, makes sense that you couldn’t.”

“Does it? Because the way I see it, I wouldn’t be here if she was satisfied with you.”

“And the way I see it, the only reason you’re stuck at a desk job is because you’re a failure everywhere else.”

“Better than being a glorified circus monkey screaming for attention to make up for being neglected as a child.”  
“

Wait, are you talking about me? You’re the one practically drooling for approval, dunkass. Must be really chafing your taint, how you’ll never be anything more than a disappointment.”

“Better than being like you, anyway.”

“You wish you were like me. I’m what she wants, y’know. You? Something went wrong in that tank, when she made you.”

“If something went wrong, I wouldn’t standing here today, now would I? She did enough settling for you.”

“Ouch, that one really stung, let me wipe away the single manly tear I’m shedding at them harsh words, bro.”

“If you need tissues, you should have brought your own. I abhor the unprepared.”

“Selfish bastard.”

“Learned from the best, of course.”

Something flashes over Dave’s face at that, too brief to name, but it’s enough for Dirk to assume that some barb has landed, though perhaps not the one he intended. It’s something to be catalogued for later, yet another micro-expression to properly decode. “A compliment at last, huh?”

“If that’s what you want to take from it.”

“Someone’s in a snarky fuckin’ mood today, I see.”

“You’ve delivered your news, and now you’re just wasting my time. Unlike you, I actually have shit to do around here.”

“Busywork to make you feel important. ‘S pathetic, anyway.”

“Staler than year-old fruit cake, that one was. You’re off your game.”

“Fuck, the only thing she can’t improve is the fruit cake, honestly. That shit’s dense as bricks and half as tasty as it is. Ain’t much you can do with it.”

“She’s still working on something for the holidays, specifically.”

“Haven’t heard about that, champ, but that’s a safe assumption to make.”

“She’ll probably tell you about it when you debrief.”

“What, you’re not coming with this time?”

“Obviously not. I’ve sent in all the reports needed, and as you’re so fond of saying, I don’t have anything to do other than the paperwork.”

“But you’re always working on something for the Drones- the only reason she keeps you around, really.”

“Sent off the plans already.”

“Discussed them in person?”

“Don’t need to, the work speaks for itself.”

“Ah, so you’ve pissed her off.”

“No, but you’re pissing me off by lingering for no good reason.”

“Maybe I just wanna know what’s gone and gotten all up in my lil bro’s hair, ruffled his feathers?”

“I think it’s quite likely to be the fact that you’re wasting my time, actually.”

“Time’s something I’ve got an excess of, don’t you worry. Ain’t wasting shit of yours.”

“No, but you’re putting off meeting. Did you piss her off? Sorry, bro, but trying to shunt the blame onto me for that one isn’t going to work. My record’s spot clean, and she knows exactly what I’ve been up to. And that none of it intersects with whatever bullshit it is you’ve been dedicating your energy towards. I’m above the bus, at this point; can’t shove me under it.”

“Damn. I’ll think of something, I’m sure.”

“You can try. Don’t waste the last two of your brain cells, though. And close the door on your way out, will you? I don’t need any more visitors.”

Dave makes a non-committal noise, and absolutely no motion to stand up. “D’you wanna know what I’m thinking about?”

“Certainly not. I like my sanity where it is, thanks, and a glimpse into the hellhole of your brain is contradictory to that.”

“I’m thinking,” Dave continues anyway, blithe, “that I should fuck you over the desk one day. Mess up all those little stacks of paper, send ‘em flying. Prolly watch you pick them up afterwards and get all bitchy when shit’s not sorted out right.”

“Work is work, that’s something else. I’m not going to go mixing the two,” Dirk replies evenly, even if the thought sends a thrill of curiosity sparking down his veins. It’s a profoundly terrible idea, to give Dave that much power over him here, and yet he finds himself strangely tempted. He would, if he wasn’t absolutely certain his brother would go rummaging through his desk afterwards- or even during, if he were to employ his Time abilities. Dave’s used it for far less altruistic means, after all.

“Lame.”

“A real tragedy, to lose your esteem,” he answers dryly. “I’d feel it more if I had any of it in the first place.”

“Like you don’t just roll over and beg for my approval every time.”

“Isn’t that what you want?”

Dave presses his lips together slightly in lieu of an answer, and Dirk raises an eyebrow at him. Something unspoken hangs in the air between them; he can feel it. He doesn’t particularly care for it, not with the way it hovers over their heads.

“Your room tonight, six past eight,” is what he says instead, his face smoothing back out to nothing but a vague smirk. “Don’t keep me waiting.”  
Dirk’s careful to keep his own face bland through his shades, and offers nothing in response to that command. He’s sure Dave will either be early or ridiculously late, but either way, there’s nothing incriminating in his rooms for his brother to find.

Dave is silent as he strolls out, hands tucked into his pockets. He leaves the door open, of course, but the room itself feels lighter without him.

!~!~!~!

He leaves the office precisely at six- early, by his standards, but he wants time to shower first. He pointedly ignores the look he gets on the way out; Dave’s taken the liberty of running a particular smear campaign against him on that account.

It would have been more effective if he hadn’t received a text from Mother congratulating him on ‘hittin dat ass an’ fin-ally getting some’. Public disdain to a rumor from someone known to spout bullshit on a regular basis isn’t really anything compared to that. Especially given that he got the text during.

He puts that firmly out of his mind when he pads into the bathroom; the only real luxury he allows himself, it’s decadence incarnate. All sleek marble floors and a huge tub, Jacuzzi style, and a separate standing shower with any number of settings and the best water pressure on the planet. Essentially, bliss.

He stands under the spray, bereft of shades and clothes, lingering longer than is strictly necessary.

Dirk’s thankful for that indulgence when he steps out in a cloud of steam, and sees the coded text flashing on his shades.

TT: Have you given any thought to what we discussed previously? 

Ah.

He doesn’t bother to get dressed in anything other than a loose bathrobe, tied around his waist, as he paces the room and composes an answer.

TT: Yeah. I’ve been giving it thought. 

TT: And? 

TT: How do I know your offer is genuine, for one? There’s a 94.6% chance that this is a trap, with you planning to decapitate me and stick my severed head on a pike as a declaration of war. 

TT: Certainly not. That’s rather barbaric, don’t you think? Decapitation isn’t my forte, in any event; I’d leave you a charred heap of ashes. 

TT: How comforting. 

TT: You won’t feel it at all, don’t worry. 

TT: Surely you’d want to record it for posterity. 

TT: So deprived of attention that even in death, you want eyes on you. A very particular set of neuroses. 

TT: You know, I always found it fuckin’ strange that an amateur psychologist and novelist could get on Mother’s nerves so much. Dave’s, too. 

TT: I’m starting to see why that is. 

TT: I do try my best, though I must admit that I’m aiming for something more than annoyance here. 

TT: You ought to try harder on that account. Nothing you’ve done so far has proved anything more than an inconvenience. And really, it’s only a matter of time before she hunts you down. 

TT: She, not we. 

TT: Interesting. 

TT: Don’t play that game with me, Lalonde. 

TT: Touchy, aren’t we? 

TT: I think you should say yes. 

TT: Of course you do. It’d be a pretty crippling blow, if I were to agree. 

TT: But you’re neglecting to recall the fact that we’d both be found out and killed, slowly and painfully. 

TT: You overestimate her. 

TT: I don’t. The Company is everywhere- we are everywhere. There’s no getting away from it, from her, and your resistance is entirely pointless. 

TT: Not true. Don’t you know what your precious company is going to cost us? Yes, us. Humanity as a whole. 

TT: She doesn’t care about you, you know. She doesn’t care about anyone. Dave knows that. And so should you. 

TT: The second she gets what she wants, you’ll be the first to go, if only because you’re in range of her trident. 

It’s a truth that stings, and one he doesn’t want to face. Not yet.  
TT: She’s put a lot of resources into us as assets to kill us off like that. 

TT: Of course she would. You are, after all, her single greatest threat. 

TT: Again with your flattery, Lalonde? 

TT: I appreciate the effort. 

TT: You misunderstand my meaning. 

TT: Consider it like this, then. You know the innermost workings of the Company, you know precisely where to hit to hurt it. You know her secrets, too. Why should she let you live, when she doesn’t need you anymore? You’re dangerous. 

TT: I’m invaluable to it. 

TT: The only thing she values is herself. 

TT: And how would you know? Why is it that you think I can get away? I can’t. 

TT: You can. I did. 

TT: What. 

TT: How do you think I knew who she was? How do you think I knew the way CrockerCorp worked, before you came along and changed things? 

TT: I do commend you on the improved efficiency, even if it’s been a pain to get around. 

TT: She wouldn’t have let you go. 

TT: She very nearly didn’t. 

TT: But it can be done. 

TT: Dave won’t let me. 

TT: He will turn a blind eye, if it comes to that. He knows it’s better for you to leave. 

Things start to rearrange themselves in his head, finally forming a clear picture. He understands now, why Dave is so careful to remind him that Lalonde is dangerous. Why Mother is so insistent on erasing her Rebellion.  
TT: All the more reason he’d keep me here. 

TT: If he had the slightest inkling, I’d be bleeding out on the floor right now. 

TT: No. 

TT: You’re wrong about him, you know. He isn’t like that. He would let you go, if it came down to that. Has he not protected you all these years? 

TT: It’s amazing how delusional you are. 

TT: Even if you were here and managed to leave- which seems less plausible by the second, by the way-, you’ve made a grave mistake if you think that Dave would do anything for my benefit. 

TT: If he’s as soulless as you seem to think, why am I not dead yet? 

TT: Presumably because we can’t find you. 

TT: Let’s not go that far. I’m a threat to the Company, and I understand that. Just as I understand why it is you haven’t been looking as hard as you should be. 

TT: But there’s no reason for him not to be actively searching. And there is no reason I should have survived when we faced one another that time. 

TT: So, what, is this some kind of Vader shit? There’s still good in him somewhere, because you can feel it? 

TT: You haven’t lived with him in nearly two decades. You don’t know what he’s like. 

TT: Whoever he was when you were here? If you were here? He isn’t that person anymore. 

TT: Do you know why I left, Dirk? 

TT: I sense you’re going to tell me anyway. 

TT: Remarkably astute. 

TT: She had created you and Roxy by then, you know. To be the perfect weapons. I’m certain that Dave thought I was concerned for my own well-being, at first. He may not have been entirely wrong. Why should she keep us both, when she would be creating the perfect children? 

TT: He used to shield me, you know. He would take punishment for me, even if it was routine. 

TT: But I digress. 

TT: I’d been planning to go for a long time. And I hadn’t told him yet, though I’d arranged everything for two. I was planning to take him with me, but- I saw her. 

TT: Roxy. 

TT: She looked at me, and I knew that I couldn’t leave her in that place to become a monster. 

TT: So you left us. 

TT: I thought that he would take care of you. 

TT: You thought wrong. 

TT: And there’s a reason you haven’t spoken to him about escape, now. A reason you didn’t go back for him. Or me. 

TT: You know what he is. The truth of it is simple. The Dave you knew is dead and gone, and you need to accept that and get over it. 

TT: I have. 

TT: Dirk. 

TT: He isn’t like that. 

TT: Yes, he is. 

TT: The rumors. 

TT: All true. 

TT: All of them. 

TT: Well. 

TT: He has a propensity for exaggeration. 

TT: I’m aware of the fact. That isn’t what I’m asking. 

TT: What do you want me to say here, Rose? 

TT: If I could go, I would. But he would find out, as would Mother, and I’d be as good as dead afterwards. 

TT: And I have no guarantee that you’re trustworthy, either. 

TT: So my answer remains the same: I’ll consider it. 

TT: And I don’t want to answer any more questions. 

TT: I will respect that. 

TT: For now, I’m sure you will. 

TT: In two days, I’ll check in. 

He doesn’t bother to respond that, instead just lets out a quiet breath and tries to quiet the whirling of his mind. Dave could arrive at any minute, being late already and Dirk knows he can’t afford to show any conflict. Or let his guard down.

The clock in his room ticks louder in a steady beat.

Dave’s an hour late, when he finally bothers to show up, and Dirk’s reclining on the bed, skimming through the messages on his phone and typing out an order to double the encryption. The door slams open loud enough to make him jump, nearly dropping his phone.

The screen shifts from lines of purple and pink text to something more innocuous before Dave takes another step closer. He sits up immediately, shoulders tensing as he scans over his brother. Shoulders tight, lips drawn in a tight line, his suit jacket’s discarded and his sleeves are rolled up. Dirk knows that if he were to lift his shades, he’d find bloodshot eyes, red on red, and hollow circles underneath. Evidently, Mother’s in a bad mood.

His fingers twitch slightly, as he tamps down on the urge to reach out.

“You’re late,” he says instead.

“Thanks for that fuckin’ brilliant observation, I see why you call yourself a genius now.”

“If you’re gonna be in a shitty mood, go do it somewhere else.”

“Why? Ain’t like you got much of a choice in terms of company. Nobody else wants to talk to your sorry ass.”

“Such flattery,” Dirk drawls out, reclining on the bed, the very picture of leisure. Dave prowls closer, tilting his head to the side; Dirk can see the slightest sliver of red gleaming above the gold rims of his shades. It never fails to send a shiver down his spine- but perhaps that’s just conditioning.

“I do got a gifted mouth. Silver tongue and all that, they all say it. The whole media, bro, and they can’t be wrong.”

“You’re the media, and you’re always wrong, dude, sorry to break it to you. But I’m glad the public’s feasting on your banquet of lies, gobbling that shit up like it’s a goddamn Thanksgiving spread.”

“Makes things real convenient, yeah. You say that like you don’t believe me.”

“Don’t recall seeing any proof of your claims, come to think of it.”

“A cute attempt at manipulation there, kiddo, but you ain’t as suave as you might wanna think. You’re about as smooth as a back-road ridden with potholes.”

You’re a slippery slope then, he thinks, but says instead, “Sure, if that’s what you want to think.”

“I think that ‘cause I’m right, dumbass,” Dave answers, one corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile. He’s finally come to a stop, just by the bed, and Dirk tilts his head up at him with a look that he knows reads as challenging. Insolent. The kind of façade that he isn’t allowed to have, but one that Dave enjoys tearing down nevertheless. “Now shut up and let’s get some sloppy fuckin’ makeouts on.”

“The only sensible thing you’ve ever said to me,” he agrees, allowing himself to reach up and curl Dave’s tie around his fist, bright red in company colors, and yank him down. It’s safe now, after all; the tension has bled from his body, at least.

He stops himself from flinching when Dave settles on top of him like he belongs there- and maybe he thinks that he does, maybe Dirk can fool himself into thinking the same thing, into gleaning comfort from the solidity of his brother’s body against his own.

Their lips meet, and it’s so different from what it was, with Jake. There’s no gentleness here, no mutual affection that he can feel pulsing between them like the warm glow of a firefly silhouetted against the night. There’s just weight, and the scrape of stubble and teeth and his mouth being pried open in a hungry kiss. He allows it, of course, even as he fists one hand in Dave’s hair, nails digging into the other’s scalp to elicit a low, rumbling groan. Almost approving.

He basks in it, drinks it in, and lets it swallow him whole.

It’s a purely physical thing, and he doesn’t allow himself to think anything more of it, even when Dave’s hand slides down his chest to yank the robe open, blunt nails grazing his skin and making his stomach flinch away. Even when he starts to unbutton Dave’s shirt with deft fingers and a practiced mind, the motions so habitual they’re almost easy. The friction of cloth against skin is almost too much, when Dave starts grinding into him, with Dirk pinned to the bed by his weight and both of them hardening- he can feel the bulge in those perfectly tailored pants growing in response.  
It isn’t a particularly pleasant sort of chafe, but he doesn’t complain. Dave doesn’t suffer complaints well. Instead, he hooks his fingers in the belt, undoes the button and yanks it out. There’s a thud as it lands on the floor, heavy with metal and decoration that’s too gaudy to be tasteful.

“Eager,” Dave rumbles into his mouth, following it up with a scrape of teeth that drags against his lower lip, leaves it feeling raw.

“Just think that you need to be wearing less clothes, given that I’m already essentially naked,” he points out as he tugs down Dave’s fly. “You’re all about that time shit, shouldn’t you be taking some initiative on that front?”

“I could, yeah, but we both know that you want this to last.”

“I’ve already made up an itinerary, though. Scheduled and color coded. Fifty-five minutes for you to run your mouth pointlessly, and another five for the actual dicking down.”

“Ain’t my fault your ass is so unappealing my only goal is to fuckin’ finish and move on.”

“Is that the excuse you’re going to use? Well, I suppose it’s always difficult to face your general incompetence. Literally speaking.”

“Wow, that one almost hurt, but I guarantee you that on someone actually attractive, I last for godamn hours. Ask English, if you need to be convinced.”

“No thanks, dude. I already live through this horror first-hand, I don’t gotta start a conversation about it when I’ve just finished blocking it from my memory.”

“Such harsh words, kiddo, but we both know that if I was gonna stop this, you’d be crawling and begging for more.”

“If that’s what you think, dude. Rest assured that if your dick game was that strong, I’d make a replica of it and have infinitely more fun with it. None of the shitty personality to ruin the experience.”

“My personality’s winning. Not my problem you don’t got one beyond that basic ass programming.”

“And the talking begins,” Dirk sighs, purposely mournful. “Y’know, the only reason you’re the one who ends up in front of the public is that you literally don’t shut up. But they think that whatever comes out of your mouth is important, or that you’re going to get to something actually relevant in the midst of all that bullshit that flies out. Listening to your speeches is soul-crushing, man. There’s the beginning joke, which you think, yeah, it’s cool, and you maybe crack a laugh or two if you’re feeling particularly generous. And then it keeps going, and you wonder when this is actually going to start. Three hours later and several increasingly obscure anecdotes, and you’re staring death in the eye and begging it to come take you.”

“Too bad he didn’t answer your desperate pleas,” Dave drawls out, his breath coming in hot puffs against the sensitive skin just at his jugular. Dirk shivers and moves away, just slightly. “It’d save me a whole fuckin’ lot of trouble.”

“Too bad I’m valuable enough that you’d be dead if you tried it,” he answers, and uses his grip on his brother’s hair to yank his head back and away from his neck. Better.

“A real fuckin’ shame, yeah,” Dave answers, a vague frown playing at the corners of his mouth. “You willing to test my self-control here, kiddo? Let me choke you out?”

“Absolutely not,” Dirk says immediately, even as he yanks Dave’s slacks down to his thighs, his nails digging into the skin lightly in chastisement. While the idea of breath control as such is one he can admit he finds interesting, to let Dave’s hands anywhere near his neck is a profoundly bad idea. “I don’t think you’d do it right, anyway. You ever done that with a sexy intent, as opposed to a desire to straight up strangle a bitch?”

“One and the same, my guy. Nearly dying makes it better, don’t you know?” The arch of a blonde brow in response, and the slow unfurling of a smirk.

“Why don’t you let me try it on you, then?” Dirk asks, bold. He keeps his face in a blank challenge as he regards Dave through his shades; he knows that there’s only one answer to that question, and the shadow that flits across his brother’s face more than answers it.

“Don’t think you’d do it right,” he replies, casually, flinging Dirk’s words back in his face with ease. “Ain’t like you ever had cause to wrap your hands around someone’s neck. The only thing they’ve been around with any kind of proficiency is a pen and your dick.”

“Not yours?” Someone’s apparently forgotten just how capable Dirk can be with a sword. Not that he thinks he could outright beat Dave, but he’d put up a fight. More than he used to, anyway. But it’s better that his brother doesn’t know.

“Eh. You do alright on that front,” comes the response, and a sly half-grin. Dirk knows that Dave’s only said that to get a rise out of him, and the worst part is that it works. The urge to prove that he can do better, that he is better, to fight for Dave’s approval and win it, rears its ugly head. He has to beat it back; there’s no approval to be had from his brother. No praise, or affection, even in this.  
The line, after all, is very clearly drawn.

(Even if a part of him is wondering if Lalonde was right, if Dave will show something here and now and prove that he’s still the person she knew. It’s a hope that curls like a knot in his throat and flutters uncertainly like a caged bird in his heart, but he knows better than to expect anything and steels himself for disappointment instead.)

“And yet you keep coming back for more,” he points out, his voice admirably even.

“Just means I’ve got you right where I want you.” Dirk raises a shoulder in a half-shrug at that, not offering anything further.  
Dave appears discomfited by the sudden silence and the drop in their verbal sparring, but he leans back to shrug his shirt off properly, remove the tie that hangs like a bloody gash against his skin. And wriggle out of his pants, somewhat graceless. It’s a strangely human moment. Dirk looks away, flicking his eyes up to examine the ceiling.

“Well, congratulations, you’ve managed to get almost naked. It only took you like twenty minutes,” he drawls out, doing his utmost best to look unimpressed.

“Yeah, well, some things I like taking my time about, gotta get your miserable ass in the mood and shit,” Dave answers, and Dirk waits to feel the rough callouses of his hands smoothing along his chest, pushing the robe off, before turning to face him again.

“How unexpectedly considerate of you,” Dirk says, pushing himself upright to let the rest of the garment fall off his shoulders to pool on the bed behind him. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, really.”

It’s meant as sarcasm, of course; Dirk can think of any number of ways his life would be improved without his brother. And yet, he finds that it’s less of what he’d do and more of who he would be, without Dave’s hands to shape him.

“What would you, though?” Dave presses after a beat of silence, just when Dirk thinks he’ll drop the topic or reply with a quick quip. “Do without me. If I wasn’t here.”

“Probably a disgusting number of public appearances to make up the slack,” he answers smoothly, and not entirely incorrectly. “Throw a party, maybe. Get sloppy drunk and celebrate.”

“You’ve never been sloppy drunk in your life, kid,” Dave slants him a look, inscrutable through his shades.

“It’d be an occasion to celebrate. Unless you were referring to what I’d do if you weren’t in my life at all, and the answer would probably be both our jobs,” Dirk adds, a twinge of anxiety making itself known. Dave still doesn’t look particularly pleased with the answer, his lips turned down a fraction of a degree. “The same boat you’d be in without me.”

“I’d have to saddle some poor soul with the metric fuckton of paperwork you do,” he finally agrees, nodding slightly. “I’m sure there’s someone out there who’s in love with paperwork as much as you are.”

“Or chomping at the bit for a chance to get away from all your bullshit,” Dirk says with the hint of a smirk.

“Please, they can’t get enough of this slab of primo mansteak,” Dave shoots back, unbearably smug, and the conversation suddenly feels a lot less like waiting for the ice under his feet to crack and the depths to rise for him. “Neither can you, but that’s the usual reaction to all thiiiiiis.” He punctuates that with a slow gesture along the length of his body; perfectly coiffed hair and dark, dark shades, strong jaw rough with stubble and thin lips, broad shoulders and a torso carved out with scars chiselled in with the carelessness of past mistakes, right down to narrow hips and thighs with a bit of softness he can’t get rid of, wine red briefs already boasting a notable bulge.

Dirk’s often wondered if he’ll grow into that sort of physique himself; as it is, his shoulders are only just starting to broaden, but where Dave is bulkier, layered with muscle, he is lean and lithe and dusted with freckles and a shitty tattoo that his brother suggested he get burning onto his shoulder. The iconic Hella Jeff grimace is as good a brand as the barcode seared into the inside of his left wrist, identical to Dave’s.

“You’re alright, I guess. All ‘thiiiiis’,” he intones, mimicking the same gesture, “does distract well from the actual concavity that’s your ass.”

“My ass is goddamn fine and you know it, fuck off. We can’t all have the sewn-on remnants of the Kardashian dynasty decorating our rear ends.” Dirk rolls his eyes at that, and hooks his fingers in the waistband of Dave’s underwear, using that to draw him closer again. And yanking it down to his thighs, for good measure, eyeing the inglorious pop-up of his cock as he frees it from the straining fabric none-too-gently.

“You’re the one who ended them, bro, I don’t see why you’d have saved an ass for me when you very well could’ve glued one on for yourself, made life a little easier for your slaughtailor.” He slides a hand back and down to rest against the flatness itself for emphasis. As expected, Dave twists, and then Dirk’s hands are pinned firmly above his head, wrists held in a grip that’s sure to leave bruises.

“What’s the matter there, bro?” he keeps on talking, his sense of self-preservation apparently kicked to the curb. But then, it’s always like this, isn’t it? Each word calculated and sharpened like a knife in the dark, readyaimfire to hit their target. Not that there’s much of one there; Dirk knows little of Dave’s vulnerabilities, whereas Dave appears to have a fucking map of his own, annotated and with a terrifyingly efficient public transport system between the sore spots. He and Hal are two peas in a pod. “You scared of taking a dick?”

“You think your three inches are enough for the job?” A trite response, and the roll of his eyes behind those shades is entirely genuine.

“Please. I’d rather not go looking for whatever horrors you’ve got stored in there,” he demurs. “But it’s funny, how much of a little bitch you are about the whole thing. Masculinity so fragile.”

“My masculinity is perfectly fuckin’ intact, thanks, but we both know you’re not good enough to do the job. You’d bust a nut in ten seconds flat and then I’d be left pissed off and blue-balled, and that’s not a situation either of us wants me to be in, now is it?” There’s that note of threat humming just below the surface again, enough to make Dirk tense beneath him, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up and crackling with muscle memory and phantom sensation.

“Dunno, man, I think you could use with not getting your way for once,” he says, his tone deliberately mild. Dave doesn’t seem to register his discomfort, which- well, suffice it to say that it’s not unusual.

“Unlike you, kiddo, I had to work for what I’ve got,” Dave replies, squeezing tighter. Dirk clenches his jaw, breathes through the building pain. It’s just another hurt on top of wounds that are already raw, after all, and he knows how to deal with it. How to break it down and disassemble it until it’s nothing.

“Yeah, I was real fucking lucky,” he agrees, and just barely manages to keep the bitterness from seeping into his voice. What comes out instead is quiet and whisper-soft, and visibly puzzling to Dave. This isn’t a point that he wants to argue, though, not here when Dave’s with him and there’s a thousand and one things lurking at the back of his mind

(no more pain, no more phantom shocks arcing across his limbs and bruises that fit his brother's hands and scratches digging in deep from fuschia nails that are always disappointed when he bleeds red, instead of tyrian)

and certainly not when it’s something that burns at the very core of him, something that he can never trust his brother with. Though that doesn’t mean much. He would do almost anything Dave asked, but- Dave would never ask about this. He wouldn’t think to.

“As long as you know it,” Dave agrees, mock solemn, and Dirk braces himself for another ‘if it were up to me, you’d never have made it out of the tube’ speech. It doesn’t come, though, and the way Dave smooths a hand down his torso, before resting it just lightly over his heart, is enough to have him tensing. The touch is deceptively gentle, and not something his brother gives. Not unless it’s a prelude to a greater hurt.

It comes in the form of Dave’s nails raking down his back, four lines of sharp, clear pain that makes a gasp rip itself from his throat, and his back arch up. It makes him press his chest right up against his brother’s, a solid, threatening heat. He can feel the approving hum rumbling against his skin.

“Good boy,” Dave says, caustic, and just those words are enough to send a shiver down Dirk’s spine. He hates it, how easy it is to get under his skin. They crawl there, sit over open wounds, and help them fester. They make his cock twitch and his breath catch in his throat, send a thrill down his spine.

He shuts Dave up by sealing their lips together, before he can say anything else that’ll dash away the warm glow that hearing it kindles in his chest. He can feel the smirk curling against his lips, and when it fades out as Dave pries his mouth open with his tongue, licks along his teeth in a kiss that’s more a proclamation of possession and a declaration of war, than anything else. He takes the chance to wrench his hands free from Dave’s grip, earning a surprised grunt, and a brief softening of the kiss, almost a reward. Dirk melts into it, curls his fingers into Dave’s hair and pulls hard enough to get a low groan and a huff of breath as it turns harsh again. Lets Dave situate himself neatly between his thighs and rock up against him properly, and quietly marvel at how perfectly they fit like this, laid bare and jagged edges lining up. And where they don’t, gouging in new wounds for them to slide into.

And then there’s a hand on his ass, squeezing tight in a promise of future pleasure, and Dirk’s happily arching into it with a low hum. He can feel Dave’s amused chuckle against his lips, practically hear the jab he’s ready to deliver- something about pathetic eagerness, no doubt. Dirk decides not to give him that particular opportunity, instead looping his legs neatly around his brother’s waist just so he can rock his own spectacularly plush ass right up against his cock.

It’s not particularly graceful, or dignified, but- Dave likes seeing him that way, dishevelled and his lips puffy pink and swollen and wrapped around his dick, or flushed pink and begging. He can understand the appeal to an extent; there’s a certain sense of power to be had in breaking down walls like that, drawing out a reaction from someone who does their utmost best to hide it. He doesn’t mind indulging Dave in this as much as he did in the beginning.

“Perfect little slut, huh, bro?” Dave breaks the kiss to pant against his lips, and Dirk just hums in response, rolling his hips to add more pressure and make Dave’s breath catch again. “Yeah. Yeah, y’love being like this. Where’s the lube?”

“Drawer,” he answers, reluctantly letting his legs fall back to the bed, as he attempts to wriggle out from under Dave to open it and grab it.

“Ten seconds, or I’m gonna go without,” his brother drawls out, and Dirk winces at the memory of that particular venture, shoving Dave’s weight off him with one arm as he reaches out with the other. Dave, obnoxious as ever, counts it out with the ticks of the clock, and Dirk is just getting worried when he hits four, and his fingers close around the tube.

“Got it,” he announces, withdrawing his hand immediately, lube in fist. He’s not looking for a repeat of that, being fucked open with spit and fingers and nowhere near enough slick, even if the slow slide of pain into pleasure was- enjoyable. At least. But he needs to be able to walk tomorrow.

“Shame,” Dave drawls out, but doesn’t extend his hand for it. “Stretch yourself, kiddo, put on a show. Indulge your inner exhibitionist and all that, we both know you don’t give a fuck ‘bout dignity, not really. Just need someone to show you that.”

“You say that like I’d never consider doing this with anyone else,” Dirk says, faintly amused, as he shifts to recline properly against the cushions. It isn’t entirely untrue, but that’s more circumstantial than anything else. It would be far easier, to do this with someone who wasn’t Dave. With someone he could trust. But that’s a list that’s entirely non-existent, and so he spreads his legs, bending one at the knee to give his brother a proper view. Dave’s since sat up, leaning back on his hands as he settles down.

“Best seat in the house,” he murmurs, absently, before flicking his eyes up to glance Dirk over. His gaze makes Dirk feel flayed open and raw, as it always does, but he lets it roll off him as he drizzles lube onto his fingers, lets it sit there to warm. “And who else would have you? More to the point, though, is who else would be able to fuck as good as I do? I’m a paragon of this shit and you know you’ll never find anyone who’ll please you like I do.”

Dirk manages not to make a face of disbelief at that. It wouldn’t go over well. He slides his hand between his legs instead, teasing a finger over his hole with a quiet exhale.  
“And I’m a penny for a pound, right?” he asks, already half-knowing the answer. But it’s arguing for the sake of arguing as a distraction, even if it feels more like cracking his ribs open to expose his still-beating heart, raw and thudding, crimson wet.

“With your bundle of issues? Nah. You’re a psychiatrist’s wet dream,” Dave says instead, his voice low as he keeps his eyes trained on Dirk. He can feel the weight of that gaze, even through the shades, as he sinks his finger all the way in. His teeth catch his lower lip as he starts to move it, taking care to go slow. Dave wants a show, after all, and Dirk is more than content to bask in the full focus of his attention, rather than something drifting in, peripheral.

“Lalonde would love to get her hands on me, in that case,” he answers, barely stopping the curl of his lips at that particular irony. “Crack my skull open and just shove her fingers inside.”

“Oh, yeah, I bet she’d love diagnosing you with a whole host of bullshit,” Dave agrees, but there’s something uncomfortable in his tone.

“Either that or decapitating me,” Dirk adds, pensive as he curls his finger inside himself to start stretching out properly.

“Christ, you really do know how to touch on all the best topics for dirty talk,” Dave comments, but he doesn’t meet Dirk’s gaze. “Death, rebellion, mental illness.”

“What, you like a little near-death adrenaline spiking your liaisons, don’t you?” he points out. “I’m just trying to provide here.”

“How thoughtful of you,” Dave drawls out, his posture deliberately shifting into something more relaxed. Dirk clocks it as a strange reaction, but given the magnum dong he’s currently nursing, he doesn’t think too much of it. “Rest assured, kiddo, if you die it’ll probably be by my hand. And don’t take that kinkshaming tone with me, yeah? There’s nothin’ quite like that rush to get a man going. Flight, fight, or fuck, that’s what it is.”

He falls silent as he slides the second in, and then the third soon after, when Dave gives him a pointed look. It’s too soon, and he can feel the burn of the stretch, but. He can’t complain here, not with Dave murmuring a quiet encouragement for him to spread ‘em wide, show him what he’s got. It’s a vulnerable, exposed position, and Dirk can feel the heat crawling into his cheeks and down his chest at it. He presses his fingers in deeper, though, once he’s gotten that rumbling groan of approval that settles warm in his chest, crooks them inside himself to just brush against his prostate, his toes curling as the calloused pad of one grazes it. It makes his cock twitch, ooze a bead of pre that drips hot onto his stomach, and elicits a quiet groan out of him. He slides his fingers out, pushes them back in once he’s found it, and it’s right fuckin’ there-,

“Aight, kiddo, stop, you’re ready.” Dave interrupts, because of course, and Dirk casts him a frustrated look. “And shades off, yeah?”  
Even worse. But Dave’s drumming a finger against his kneecap, a quick, impatient beat, and he complies. His posture tenses immediately as he takes the tinted lenses off, his eyes closed at first. He knows exactly how far he needs to reach to set them on the nightstand, out of the way, but he knows he can’t get away with keeping them shut. The tightening of Dave’s fingers just where his thigh meets the bone is enough to prompt him to open them, blinking away the change in light. It’s disorienting, without the HUD, or even without the comforting sepia the dark-tinted lenses paints the world in.

He doesn’t quite manage to look Dave in the eye, though the slow, satisfied smirk tugging at his brother’s lips isn’t something he can miss.

“Good boy,” he practically purrs out, and Dirk hates how it gets under his skin like that, how it makes him constantly crave more approval, like an idiot puppy hoping for treats between blows. Dirk huffs out a breath, flicking his eyes up to the ceiling. He feels naked, now more so than ever.

He can feel Dave shifting between his thighs, moving them apart and then hooking his knees neatly over his broad shoulders. Dirk, for a brief moment, entertains the thought of attempting to snap his neck with his legs, but- that’s not something that’s feasible. Best left to superhero movies and trained female assassins with thighs stronger than steel.

The head nudges against his hole, and it makes him inhale sharply; it’s hot and wet and leaking pre already, and he presses his lips together. There is, admittedly, a dark sort of satisfaction to be found in knowing that he can make Dave react like that, even if it’s nothing but something physical. Uncontrollable, really. Impersonal.

“You gonna do this sometime today?” Dirk asks, careful to keep his tone just on this side of bored, disinterested. Nothing quite gets under Dave’s skin like Dirk ignoring him, no matter what he does. It’s almost amusing, really, how he throws a tantrum when Dirk can’t be bothered to properly play the victim and give him a reaction. It’s the mask Dave taught him how to put on, practically stapled his face, and Dirk finds ironic amusement in how he seems to hate it so much.

As expected, Dave’s lips press together in a thin line, and he pushes in, harsh in one go, enough to drive the breath from Dirk’s lungs.

“Fuck-,” he gasps out, his fingers curling tight in the sheets. He’s filled to the brim and stretched open and there’s still that ache and sting because he hadn’t stretched enough, but he doesn’t react to it, blinks away the moisture he can feel prickling at the corners of his eyes.

“Shit, you’re tight,” Dave murmurs, his hands sliding down the skin of Dirk’s thighs with something that could be mistaken for reverence in another scenario, in another life where they’re not who they are.

“Wonder why,” he mutters, shifting his hips in a futile effort to get as used to the feeling of Dave’s cock inside him as soon as he can, before his brother starts moving. He has to force the tension out of his body, increment by increment.

It’s a surprise, when Dave actually waits for him, his fingers still sketching arcs down his skin.

“Hurry up,” is the only thing he gets in way of explanation, but Dave is remaining still fully sheathed inside him, and Dirk takes another few breaths, forces himself to relax the rest of the way. He’ll take this chance while he can; it’ll mean less soreness later. No doubt his brother is going to make up for it with some new cruelty.

“’m good,” he finally says, after the silence has stretched for nearly a minute. He could have waited longer, but the tension in the air is thickening, and his brother has never been the most patient of people. And, more than that, he needs Dave to know that he can take this, that he isn’t weak, or soft, or any of the things his brother spits at him like they’re curses, venom dripping from his mouth and seeping into their kisses.

“Good,” Dave echoes, and his grips tighten on Dirk’s thighs. More bruises for the next day, he’s sure, but as Dave starts to move, rolling his hips for deep, quick thrusts, huffing out his breaths above him, Dirk feels- good. Wanted, for once. It’s the reason he keeps coming back for more, even when Dave surges forward to seal their lips together in a kiss that’s all hunger and teeth and possession, that feels like a gunshot. Even when his thrusts get sharper, and the sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room.

Dave’s never quiet, and this is no exception; where Dirk tries to keep his reactions to a minimum, wresting out control of the one thing he can truly exert it over, Dave is loud, unapologetically so. Free with babbled nonsense and breathless curses and, fuck, Dirk, just like that, calling him a perfect slut in a way that’s supposed to be a slur, just another knife hurled into his chest, but instead sounds like a goddamn prayer.

All of this is whispered into Dirk’s skin, between open-mouthed kisses and the scrape of teeth as he starts to trail down his jaw, and neck, leaving more marks in his wake. Bruises to last for days, when his mouth reaches his chest, teeth sinking into muscle hard enough to make Dirk bark out a cry, clenching around him tight.

It hurts, slicing through the haze of pleasure with ease, and he can feel Dave’s lips curling into a vicious, victorious smirk just against it. The mark throbs more than the others, but he gets his fingers in his brother’s hair, yanks him right back into a real kiss. Dave hisses out a pained breath, his hips faltering for just a moment- and that’s a triumph for Dirk, too, even more so when he drives back in and the angle is different, perfect, the length of him sliding right up against his prostate.

He sucks in a breath, moans it out, the sound ragged and muffled, into the kiss.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” Dave breathes out, before he catches his lip between his teeth, pearly white for the nicest fake smile that nobody ever saw, and it thrums in his chest, making his back arch. “Yeah, you like that, huh? Goddamn, Dirk, y’feel so good, fitting me like a glove, ain’t like you’re gonna have anyone else,” he keeps going, between the kisses that are more like bumps of their lips against one another, now.

Dirk loses track as he talks; he knows Dave doesn’t mean it, doesn’t mean any of it, and that just makes how desperate he really is for that praise so much worse. He drags his nails down Dave’s back just to feel him flinch and groan; it’s not hurting him back, not really, not with the way Dave enjoys it and begs for more. Or he would, with someone else. Dave’s never let Dirk hurt him.

He can feel the pleasure building, curling tight into a knot in his stomach, his thighs tense with the effort it takes to hold out. He wants this to last longer, wants to feel Dave against him and hear Dave murmuring that praise that’s all for him. Wants Dave to touch him without the threat of violence or something else lurking beneath his hands.

“Give it to me,” Dave prompts, his voice strained and breathless, and Dirk vaguely registers the way the headboard is creaking behind him.

“Yeah,” he agrees, because how can he say no? It doesn’t take much longer, just another repeated encouragement from Dave, before he does.

It almost takes him by surprise, how good it feels as it washes through him, as splatters of wet heat land on his stomach and Dave’s, as his head falls back in pleasure and his mouth open in a wordless cry.

He’s practically boneless, beneath Dave, his eyes shutting for a moment as he basks in the aftermath- a difficult task, with Dave still moving on top of him. But he draws him in for another kiss this one clumsy on his part and sloppy on Dave’s, encouraging his brother in turn to come. It’s the one thing he can do that he knows satisfies Dave, which is intoxicating in itself.

Dirk releases his grip, when his brother buries himself deep one last time, coming with what’s almost a shout. His body is tense with it, and Dirk knows his eyes are closed behind those shades. It’s the only reason he allows his own face to soften, though he doesn’t press a kiss to that slackened jaw, doesn’t brush his hair back from his forehead, where it clings darkened with sweat.

Dave, like a giant asshole, collapses onto him when he’s well and truly done, his breath leaving him in a soft huff. Dirk winces as his weight smears the mess around, as his body smacks into the building aches he’s left everywhere like brands. He’s careful not to complain, though, instead relishing just this quiet touching while he can still have it. He lets his hands drop to his sides instead, pressing his palms flat against the sheets to absolve himself of any temptation to wrap his arms around Dave, hold him cloIt’s a useless endeavour.

“Well, that was fine,” his brother rumbles, his syllables loose and his tone light and seemingly relaxed. He trusts it, this time.

“Worked out alright, yeah,” Dirk hums in agreement, his own answer quiet. “And I only look like I was attacked by two vampires, instead of ten.”

“Hilarious. We both remember your goddamn Twilight phase,” Dave says. Formerly lax, he’s tensing again, ready to move. Dirk has to bite back a protest, as Dave sits up and pulls out, careless, before standing on legs that seem perfectly steady. Lucky bastard. “Well, thanks for that, and all, I’ll send you a feedback form since you love paperwork so goddamn much. A C minus, at best, sorry, bro, but you gotta work on some shit.”

Dirk tunes him out as he lays in bed, feels the bruises and bite-marks throb, and relishes the hollow emptiness of this feeling of being wanted as he watches Dave dress. The broad, scarred back is now marred with a neat set of angry red lines, and Dirk curls his fingers into a loose fist, wishing they could have done more damage. He doesn’t say anything, not even when Dave turns to look at him, almost expectant. He only returns it with the blank stare he’d been taught. There’s- something, in return. A slight twitch of his brother’s lips that could be approval, or frustration, but Dirk is out of arm’s reach and Dave is close to the door.

When he leaves, the door still ajar, Dirk closes his eyes and thinks of purple text and a brother he never had the chance to know, and an opportunity.

He puts his shades back on to a message in red text, blinking at him.

TT: Well, what are you going to do? 

!~!~!~!

 **coda**.

The speech is long, predictably, but less rambling than usual. There are almost no stunts, and the [UNREAL AIR] doesn't make an appearance, shockingly enough. Dirk lingers in the back of the audience, grudgingly impressed by the way they seem to be at rapt attention, hanging on to every silver-coated word tripping from the lips of the man at the podium. Dirk knows that he would be suitably mesmerized, too, if he were hearing it for the first time. If he didn’t know the speaker at all.

It’s a pretty piece, either way. Heavy on the metaphor, despite Dirk’s efforts to have it trimmed down before it made its way into hands that fit too perfectly around his neck. He’s certain that the colourful comparisons are entirely improvised, but there’s no interrupting now. Not when this needs to be perfect. And it will be, of course.

He stills, slips behind the broad back of a taller gentleman as shaded eyes sweep the crowd in a routine mockery of geniality. Something twists in his stomach as that gaze lingers in the back corners of the room, shadowed and perfect for lurking in, if Dirk were less experienced at such a thing. He adjusts the collar of his shirt subtly, ensures that the sleeves of his suit jacket hide the fingerprint bruises that decorate his wrists, and keeps his shoulders square even as his hands curl into fists, his nails digging into the meat of his palm.

He slips silently out of the room as soon as the weight of his brother’s eyes flick back to the front, and a smile that’s almost charming spreads across his face.

Not yet, he tells himself, when he’s locked into his office and finally feels like he can breathe, with an offer seared into his mind and plans already coalescing. Not yet.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Idea co-opted from a discussion I had in an RP. 
> 
> Happy holidays.


End file.
